


fates like ours

by radialarch



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Royalty, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-07
Updated: 2016-03-07
Packaged: 2018-05-25 09:55:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6190114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/radialarch/pseuds/radialarch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve knows him as Bucky long before he learns about Prince James.</p><p>[Fusion with NBC Kings.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	fates like ours

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mici (noharlembeat)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/noharlembeat/gifts).



 

### I.

The summer Steve turns seven, he’s wandering the woods at the edge of their farm when he nearly trips over a boy who’s neatly tucked under a fallen tree trunk. His face is streaked with dirt and his clothes are absolutely filthy.

“’m Steve,” Steve says cheerfully. “Wanna go poke frog eggs with me?”

The boy sniffs and carefully wipes his hand on his knee before he pokes it forward. “Bucky,” he says. “Okay.”

Steve yanks him up and drags him toward the pond. It is the start of the most exciting summer of his childhood.

One day when the leaves are turning yellow, Bucky turns up panting with his hair combed neatly and shiny new shoes. “They’re gonna find me,” he says. “But I wanted to say good-bye.”

“Where’re you going?” Steve asks.

“I don’t know.” Bucky wrinkles his nose. “But I think it’s a long way away.”

“Are you gonna come back?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “I promise.”

Every summer, Steve goes out into the woods. Sometimes he draws. Other times he just sits by the pond and listens to the frogs croak.

Bucky doesn’t come back.

* * *

The war starts up again. Steve’s long accepted that his growth spurt’s never gonna come but the army’s desperate enough that they take him anyway.

He spends long months in the trenches listening to the artillery roar and sketching dirty pictures for the men in his squadron. Everyone’s frustrated that they’re mostly forbidden to engage but rumors say that the top brass are unwilling to go on the offensive.

There’s a stir one night that wakes Steve up from sleep. In the morning, their CO tells them that an elite strike force had met unexpected resistance. The casualties were high. They took prisoners.

The orders are clear: do not engage.

Steve’s on lookout duty when he spots a new tent being put up beyond the tanks. He squints into his binoculars and thinks he can make out a guard standing at the entrance.

When Dum Dum comes out to take over and pokes him in the ribs, Steve grins at him and says, “Can you do me a favor?”

Steve makes it across no-man’s land and into the tent without being spotted. The prisoner’s head is bandaged and his face caked with blood, but when Steve asks if he can walk he nods.

They’ve just made it past the line of tanks when there’s the beam of a flashlight and a shout. “Run,” Steve tells the prisoner, shoving him towards safety, and gets to his feet.

Falsworth snatches the binoculars from Dum Dum and says incredulously, “Surely no one’s that stupid.”

Steve is, in fact, exactly that stupid.

Steve is five feet from the tank when the grenade explodes.

Steve comes back to camp with soot on his face and heads straight for the prisoner. “Court martial me later,” he snaps when someone protests. He unwinds the dirty bandage and runs a damp cloth over his face to wipe away some of the blood.

The prisoner opens his eyes, and Steve says, “Bucky?”

“Um.” Someone is tugging at Steve’s sleeve. “That’s Prince James, sir.”

Bucky smiles very faintly and says, “Heya, Steve.”

* * *

Steve is doubly sure he’s going to get court martialed, what with disobeying orders and laying hands on the princely person. Instead, he gets an invitation to the palace.

The palace is enormous. Steve sits on his hands because he’s afraid he’s gonna break something and jumps to his feet when Bucky comes into the room. “I’m really glad you’re safe,” he says. “Sir.”

Bucky stares at him for a moment and then his face cracks into a smile. “Steve,” he says. “Shut up and gimme a hug.”

Afterwards, Bucky shows him around all the rooms, and then nicks a bottle of wine from the cellar and sneaks it back to his room. He clears a pile of laundry from his chair so Steve can sit and pokes around for cups.

“You never told me you were the prince,” Steve says.

Bucky’s wiping out a mug with his sleeve and doesn’t look up. “Would it have changed anything?” he says.

Steve pretends to think about it, and then says, “Naw. You’d still be a dumbass.”

Bucky laughs and throws the cork at him. “I can’t believe I missed you, asshole.”

They talk for hours until someone comes up, frantic, and tells them they need to get to the banquet. Bucky makes a face and starts digging in his closet. He comes up with two sets of suits and throws one at Steve.

“There’s no way I’m fitting into your clothes,” Steve says.

“It’s from when I was younger,” Bucky says, muffled by the sweater he’s pulling over his head. “Try it on.”

Steve goes faintly red when he realizes Bucky’s changing right there and retreats to the bathroom. The suit’s a little long in the sleeves but it actually fits pretty well.

Bucky looks him over critically and then makes him stand still while he does his tie for him. He does his own with a lot less fuss and then sighs before waving Steve out the door.

* * *

Bucky sits up very straight at the banquet and knows all the forks he’s supposed to use. He laughs a lot but Steve’s heard him laugh a thousand times and he’s never sounded so brittle. _Are you okay_ , Steve wants to ask, but Bucky shakes his head when Steve leans toward him. “You look like you’re gonna say something painfully sincere,” he says in an undertone. “Don’t say anything you mean if you can help it.”

This is perhaps the first time that Steve realizes what it means for Bucky to have grown up as the prince.

After dinner there are drinks and a thousand people clamoring to talk to Steve. He repeats the same thing over and over (he’s glad to have saved the prince, he only wanted to do his duty). His eyes start watering at the flashbulbs after a while and his smile feels like it’s frozen on his face.

He’s catching his breath in a corner when Bucky touches his elbow. “My father’s gonna want to give you some kind of reward,” He says. “You should ask for a dance with Becca.”

“What? Why?” Steve says, startled. “I don’t know how to dance.”

“That’s all right, just let her lead,” Bucky says. “It’ll be good for your image.”

“Bucky,” Steve says. “I don’t care about my image.”

Bucky’s jaw goes tight and he looks away for a moment. “Could you just,” he says, “could you just do it for me? I’m trying to do the right thing.”

Steve says, slowly, “Okay.”

“Great,” Bucky says. He’s smiling again, a stiff, plastic thing. “Thanks.”

The king does come to find him, and he does offer Steve a reward. “Anything you want,” he says, “half my kingdom, if you desire.”

Steve looks up to find Bucky staring at him from across the room. Bucky tips his head towards where Princess Rebecca is resplendent in a beautiful dress.

Steve says, “I’d be honored if the princess might agree to a dance.”

Later, Steve will not remember much of the dance: just the firm press of the princess’s hand on his shoulder, and the way Bucky had looked at him the whole time, eyes dark.

 

### II.

The public hails Steve as a hero; on the front, the war escalates. These two things are possibly related.

Steve’s leave is almost up and he’s packing to go back to the front when he gets new orders.

“Did you know about this?” Steve demands when he sees Bucky next. “They’re reassigning me to the city.”

Bucky’s face does something very complicated, but the only thing he says is “No, I didn’t.”

Steve flops into a chair and puts his head in his hands. “I hate this,” he says. “I just wanted to do the right thing.”

Bucky gnaws on his bottom lip for a moment before he says, “Hey, look, this could be a good thing.”

“How could this possibly be a good thing?” Steve demands.

“Out there? You’re just a body,” Bucky says. “You get killed and nobody sheds a tear. It’s different when people know your name. You say something and people actually listen.”

Steve looks at him — really looks at him — before he says flatly, “That’s awful.”

“You don’t think I know that?” Bucky nearly shouts. “Christ, Steve, I’ve been — people ask me about the war and national policy like I know anything, like what I say _matters_ , and I give some bullshit answer and they eat it up. They don’t want the truth, they want something they can build up and worship, because it’s easier, because then nothing has to change. Well, now you can do something about it. You can make people _care_.”

And then Bucky takes a deep breath and curls his fingers into the arm of Steve’s chair and gives him a tight smile. “You know what,” he says, “ignore me. Ignore everything I just said.”

“You —”

“Look,” Bucky says, and Steve’s getting used to the sick feeling in his stomach when Bucky puts on his plastic smile. “You’ve been promoted, you’re a captain now — we should be celebrating. Let’s go out.”

Steve still can’t wrap his head around how quickly Bucky changes, slides on a smile like it’s some kind of armor. “I don’t —” he hedges, “I haven’t really —”

“Even more reason,” Bucky says, clapping his hand around Steve’s shoulder, and even if it’s fake Steve’s always been crap at resisting Bucky’s enthusiasm. “I’ll take you to all the best places.”

* * *

They go out. Bucky tosses his keys to valets and skips lines to head for the door like it’s completely normal, and there are so many people Steve finds it hard to breathe — reaching out for Bucky, grasping at his clothes, like Bucky’s made of gold and they’re desperate for some of the shine, any of it, to rub off on them.

Bucky makes sure Steve’s never without a drink and Steve keeps swallowing them down because it’s easier to drown in the pounding music when there’s something burning in his stomach.

* * *

Steve’s lost track of how many clubs they’ve visited when Bucky sidles up to him at the bar and nods across the room. “Four o’clock,” he says. “Brunette in red. Definitely into you.”

Steve instinctively jerks his head around before Bucky cuffs his head and turns him straight again. “Don’t _look_ ,” he says like it’s something obvious. “Go over. Ask her to dance.”

Steve turns red, even though it’s probably hard to tell in the dim light. “I’m not — I still can’t dance,” he says. “And I don’t really think she’s into me as much as the idea of me.”

Bucky shrugs. “Sometimes you really can’t tell the difference,” he says. “And like, who cares? You’re out to get laid, not married.”

Steve nearly chokes at that. “I didn’t realize that was the point,” he says when he finally catches his breath.

“Well, not if you’re _scared_ ,” Bucky says, and that’s transparent as hell but Steve’s never been able to turn down a dare.

* * *

He offers to buy the girl a drink. She raises her eyebrow at him and offers to buy _him_ one.

She’s actually pretty nice, Steve discovers in the course of the next hour. It turns out that she’s a military engineer, and she’s got a sharp tongue and a keen interest in details Steve can provide about the Goliath tanks. Steve laughs a lot more than he thought he would and feels something warm in his stomach when she casually drops her hand on his knee.

It’s very late when Bucky comes up to him with a girl on his arm and shouts, “We should head back,” He nods at Peggy and says, “You’re welcome to come along.”

Steve is too flustered to say more than “I don’t know if —” before she interrupts and says, “I’d love to.”

The ride back is incredibly awkward. Bucky’s date is openly feeling him up through his pants. Bucky mostly lets her and occasionally turns his head to lazily drop a kiss on her mouth.

When they reach Bucky’s apartment, Bucky points Steve and Peggy to a door and then seems to forget that they’re there entirely. Steve hears the girl giggling as she flashes her ID for the camera and flushes as he pulls the door closed.

When he turns around, he realizes that the room is a bedroom.

His panic must be really obvious on his face because Peggy laughs at him. “That’s all right,” she tells him, “you’ve been delightful, but I won’t be crushed if we don’t go any further.”

The amount of relief he feels is probably insulting, but Steve is pathetically, utterly grateful. “Look, why don’t you sleep here,” he says. “I’ll go somewhere else.”

The common area is empty by the time Steve comes out. He stretches out on the couch, lays Bucky’s jacket over himself (he has no idea where his own went), and goes to sleep.

That’s how Bucky finds him in the morning: hair tumbled into his eyes, his nose buried in the collar of Bucky’s jacket. Bucky closes his eyes and says softly, “Christ.”

 

### III.

Military intelligence picks up news of concentrated movement just across the border. They’re not sure if it’s in preparation for an attack, and they can’t get more information without eyes on the ground.

Bucky’s squad is tapped to go investigate. Technically Bucky’s never been cleared back for active duty but nobody argues when he announces that he’s going.

The king does, however, suggest that he take Steve with him.

“He’s not trained—” Bucky starts to protest.

“Captain Rogers did an admirable job saving your life, training or not,” the king says mildly, and there’s a mutinous set to Bucky’s jaw but he doesn’t say another word until the meeting’s over.

“You shouldn’t be going,” Bucky says after, running his hands worriedly through his hair and pacing all over his room. “It’s dangerous, you could — and have you even had stealth training?”

“I’ll try not to slow you down,” Steve says dryly, although there’s an edge; there’s always an edge when the topic is what he can and cannot do, and it won’t dull even for Bucky.

Bucky yanks his hands out of his hair and looks at Steve, fierce and pleading. “That’s not what I —” he says, “Steve, that’s not why —”

“Yeah,” Steve says, “Yeah, Buck, I know,” and Bucky doesn’t apologize but he doesn’t talk any more about it, either.

* * *

They’re dressed in top quality gear the night they set out and Steve’s pretty sure his rifle costs more than his head. There’s camouflage paint smeared on their faces, and Steve’s still trying to get used to the sight of Bucky’s eyes shining bright out of the darkness.

In the field, Steve finds a different side of Bucky. It’s not quite the bright and joyful Bucky he knows, but it’s not the brittle formality he puts on in public, either. Bucky’s good at command, is reassuring and warm to his men. Steve thinks distantly that this is who Bucky would have been if the palace and cameras and the people’s overwhelming need hadn’t crushed it out of him, and swallows down the sudden urge to — touch him, hold him, _something_.

They cross the border without drawing notice and trek down to the ridge where intelligence had placed the heart of the activity. Steve guesses they’re about halfway there when there’s an unmistakable _click_ under the ball of his foot.

He swallows, and sets his heel back down on the ground, and says, “Bucky.”

The entire time Bucky’s disabling the mine, he keeps up a running commentary for Steve, low and steady. Whenever Steve misses a beat in the conversation he nudges Steve’s knee with his shoulder, comfortable and friendly, like he’s saying, _What have we gotten ourselves into, yeah?_ It does a lot to get Steve to stop trembling like a leaf and blow them all up in the process.

The moment Steve’s foot comes off the mine, Bucky swings him around by the shoulders and presses their foreheads together.

“I’m okay,” Steve finds himself saying over and over, “I’m okay.”

“You —” Bucky says, low and thick. “You.”

They’re all much more careful at putting their feet down after that.

* * *

They get to the site and it’s a hive of activity, men milling around the fire. They’re clearly outnumbered. Bucky has a brief whispered discussion with his XO and decide it would be easiest and cleanest to swing around wide to grab a sentry or straggler. Bucky leaves the XO in charge and takes someone with him when he goes, but it’s an anxious few minutes for Steve who tries to distract himself by squinting down at the camp.

He’s almost sure they’re stockpiling weapons when Bucky comes back with a man at knifepoint. The other guy’s happy to hand over the prisoner’s weapon when Steve asks, and in the dark Steve feels over the rifle and pauses when his fingertips trace the tiny familiar logo at the base of the stock.

It suddenly becomes much more important that the man they captured have answers.

When they find an abandoned shack on the way back to the border, Bucky tells them to stop. They shove the man through the doors and tie him down securely. They ask Bucky if he needs anything else.

Bucky says, “Get out, and don’t come back for half an hour.”

The others obey without a word. Steve stares at the line of Bucky’s back and says, “Bucky.”

“Don’t,” Bucky says tightly without turning around. “Steve, just — please.”

Walking out that door is perhaps one of the hardest things Steve’s ever done.

* * *

When they come back, the man’s a mess and Bucky’s hands are shaking. Without looking at any of them in particular, Bucky says grimly, “Someone’s been funneling over weapons. Intel’s gonna have a field day with this one.”

* * *

They’re about the re-cross the border when a patrol of their own soldiers start firing at them. “Stop,” Bucky shouts, “it’s us, it’s Barnes,” But most of their squad had died in the first barrage and he’s not sure they heard. He ducks back down only to freeze when their prisoner lunges for him and hooks an arm around his neck.

Steve’s world narrows down to this: Bucky, and the fragile thread of life at his throat.

He doesn’t remember reaching for his pistol.

He doesn’t remember pulling the trigger.

He does remember, quite vividly, the dark spurt of blood across Bucky’s face, and how he’d gone limp (no no no _Bucky_ ) before he rolled away from the body, his shoulders heaving.

Steve reaches for him, presses his hands to Bucky’s chest to feel the rabbit-pounding of his heart. “Bucky,” he says. “You’re not — I didn’t —”

“You saved me,” Bucky says, muffled into Steve’s shoulder. “You keep saving me.”

“I don’t mind,” Steve says, punch-drunk. He lets the thump of his heart settle into something more steady. “But I think,” he says, “if you don’t mind, I’d like to go home now.”

 

### IV.

It’s the king’s birthday. Everyone who’s anyone is crammed into the palace, laughing and dancing, drunk more on their brush with royalty than the plentiful alcohol.

Bucky wishes his father _Happy birthday_ early on, then slips away to the shadows with a bottle of something strong. He’s made it through nearly half the bottle when the lights flicker, and go out.

Security’s in an uproar. He hears them radioing each other, _Secure the perimeter_ and _Get the king to safety_ , and then, crackling and echoing in the hallway, _Find the prince._

He knows it’d be the right thing to let himself be found and herded into some secure room with the rest of the royal family, but god, the thought of it makes his chest go tight, like he’s drowning within arm’s reach of shore and no one’s bothered to hold out a hand. He puts his head on his knees and draws in shuddering breaths, and then stands up to go find Steve.

He keeps his head down, his hands in his pockets and his shoulders slumped, and the guards brush past him without a second glance. Bucky’s always understood the importance of appearances.

Steve finds him in the foyer. “Bucky,” He says, out of breath and relieved. “I’ve been looking everywhere, we gotta get you—”

“Let’s get out of here,” Bucky says, giving him a conspiratorial grin. “Just you and me.”

Steve shoots an anxious look over his shoulder. “What about—”

“C’mon, Steve,” Bucky says, “you’ve never really seen the city in the dark,” and when he steps outside it only takes a moment before he hears Steve slipping out, too.

It’s a shock, seeing the city plunged into darkness. Here and there Bucky sees flickers of light, candles and flashlights set up to ward off the deepest of shadows, but on the whole it’s rather like being swallowed by some gigantic beast.

They walk along the river in companionable silence. Across the bridge, someone’s set a bonfire in a barrel, and a crowd has gathered by it, still buzzing with celebratory cheer. There are people dancing, holding hands, kissing while the shadows flicker over their faces. No one gives Bucky and Steve a second look. They’re nobodies in the dark, faceless, anonymous. They could do anything. They could _be_ anything.

Bucky looks sideways at Steve and sees him smiling, and there’s the familiar pull in his chest, the desire to have that smile directed at him and only at him. Sometimes he thinks it’s a sickness, that he wants Steve’s attention on him like a plant craves the light; sometimes he hates it, that Steve reduces him to a creature who would beg, hungry for Steve’s affection and never satisfied. But tonight, there are no eyes on Bucky except for Steve’s, and Bucky wants like he’s never wanted before.

When Bucky fists his hands in the front of Steve’s jacket and pulls him in for a kiss, Steve says “Oh,” very softly against his lips.

“Sorry,” Bucky says at once, closing his eyes, “I didn’t mean—”

“Bucky,” Steve says, “look at me,” and Bucky shudders but he’d do anything Steve said in that raw, broken-open voice.

He sees it play out slow, like he’s looking from far away: Steve, moving slow and careful, leaning forward to press his mouth to Bucky’s again.

* * *

There’s an apartment Bucky has, leased under a different name. He doesn’t remember leading Steve there, just fierce joy filling him up, a phantom pressure on his lips like Steve had marked him somehow, branded him, claimed him.

They’re on each other the moment the door closes, desperate like they’re trying to climb into each other’s bodies. They don’t make it to the bedroom, tripping over the sofa, fumble-fingered with impatience and excitement. Bucky comes with his shirt half-unbuttoned, Steve’s fingers on his cock and Steve’s mouth at his throat.

Later, when they’ve made it to bed: Bucky opens Steve up carefully, presses into him slow, and Steve’s eyes are enormous, astonished. Bucky presses his face into Steve’s shoulder because he can’t bear to look at that expression, like Bucky’s giving him something precious instead of taking this from him, ruining him.

Later still: Bucky traces over Steve’s body, all its dips and hollows. He wants to memorize the geography of Steve, a map he can fold up and carry in his heart.

They’re riding high on the newness of it, the wonder at being able to touch. Steve tugs him into poses and draws him, and Bucky lets him, laughing all the while.

He loves him, Bucky thinks at one point, the thought coming sudden and clear. Before, it would have gutted him; now, he thinks he should have known it all along. You can’t fight something that’s true.

“Sometimes,” Bucky confesses, very quietly, “I think you’re the only thing that’s real.”

Steve makes a wounded little noise at that, and kisses him, and kisses him.

It’s much more than Bucky deserves: one perfect night. He’s always known the lights would come back on.

* * *

They go back to the palace holding hands. Bucky doesn’t think about the imprint of Steve’s teeth on his thigh, the memory of Steve’s fingers on his skin. He doesn’t think about anything at all.

“Bucky,” Steve says when they’re almost to the palace gates. “It was real. This is real.”

Slowly, Bucky untangles his fingers from Steve’s. “I know,” he says without looking at Steve. “But that’s not always enough.”

 

### V.

Six months after he first comes to the capital, Steve gets arrested.

“What are the charges,” Steve says, very steady. “Just tell me that.”

“Steven Grant Rogers,” one of them says while someone else is cuffing his hands behind his back, “you are charged with treason, for colluding with enemies of the crown, for conspiring against the life of the prince and his associates, for—”

Steve kind of stops listening after a while.

There’s an unmarked black van in front of the building. They put him in the back with a pair of guards. Neither of them say anything to him. Steve can see they’re heavily armed; Steve’s still in his pajamas. He tries to remember the turns the van makes but he’s still not that familiar with the city and eventually he loses track.

Finally, Steve is escorted into a building with the barrel of a rifle jammed underneath his shoulderblade. Steve turns his head to catch a glimpse of tall fences and guards on patrol before they shove him through the doors.

They put him in a cell. They don’t let him talk to anyone. They leave him alone, and Steve sits on the bed and puts his head between his knees and tries to _think_.

He doesn’t know how much time has passed when he looks up and finds Bucky in front of the bars.

“Bucky,” Steve says, scrambling up. He hadn’t realized how sick he’d felt until he sees Bucky’s face and feels like he can breathe again. They can do this. They can figure out what’s going on.

Bucky looks at him, and his voice is flat when he says, “How long.”

“What,” Steve says.

“How long have you been pretending,” Bucky says. “Was it when the war started? Or was it before then,” and Bucky’s voice shakes, just a fraction, “When we were _kids_ , christ—”

“ _No_ ,” Steve nearly shouts, feeling like he’s going to throw up, “Bucky, it’s not true, I’ve never — I would never —”

“You were really good, you know,” Bucky says like he hasn’t heard Steve at all. “People have been trying to use me all my life. I almost fell for it, with you.”

“Don’t do this,” Steve says, pleading. “Bucky. You know me.”

“Don’t call me that,” Bucky says coldly. “I don’t know you at all.”

After Bucky leaves, Steve sits on the floor for a long time. He tries not to think very much.

* * *

There’s a trial. Steve looks at photos of him in places he’s never been, and watches people he’s never met swear that he’s a traitor. Bucky’s there, his mouth in a hard line, and he doesn’t look at Steve at all.

A week into the trial, someone organizes a meeting with Steve. He has no idea who wants to see him, and the guards won’t say. They leave him cuffed to the table in the windowless room. Steve tries to count the minutes in his head.

Maybe half an hour later, the door opens again.

“Steve,” The man says, familiarly, like they know each other. “How are you doing? Comfortable?”

“Oh, yeah,” Steve says. “Perfect.”

The guy smiles, like he genuinely finds Steve amusing. “I’m here to offer you a deal.”

“No,” Steve says immediately. “I’m not guilty, and I’m not gonna lie.”

The man leans back and looks at him a little. “You’re very young,” he says. It sets Steve’s teeth on edge. “I’m sure you think it’s very noble, fighting for a helpless cause.”

“I’m not trying to be _noble_ ,” Steve spits at him. “I just know I should do the right thing.”

“Well, of course,” he says. “I think that’s very admirable of you. But what _is_ the right thing to do here?”

The guy reaches into his bag and pulls out a file. He slides it across the table so Steve can reach it.

“Are you trying to blackmail me?” Steve says incredulously. “I’m not ashamed of anything I’ve done.”

The man just looks down at the file, patiently. Steve finally reaches for it and flips it open.

There are pictures. Him and Bucky. Steve’s face burns. That had been something _private_. Seeing it parceled out in sordid bite-sized moments for consumption — it’s the opposite of what it should be.

“You’re a smart guy, Steve,” he says. “I’m sure you care about Prince James a great deal.”

Steve looks at him. “He deserves better than you,” he says. “All of you, trying to drag him down and break him.”

“You think you’re better than that, Steve?” The man says, gentle. “You think he’ll thank you if you ruin him?”

Steve can’t speak. He’s shaking with rage. The man closes the file and tucks it back into his bag.

“You have a choice,” he advises, before he leaves. “Consider it.”

It’s two days later when the trial reconvenes. They ask Steve if he has anything to say. Steve looks around the room. He sees the man looking placidly back at him. He sees Bucky looking listlessly at the evidence, not raising his head.

Steve takes a breath, and gets to his feet.

“The accusations against me,” he says steadily, “are true.”

The room erupts with sound. Bucky’s hand tightens into a fist, but he doesn’t look up. Everyone else is staring at him.

“I have betrayed my prince,” He says over the noise. “I have done him harm, I have failed my duty to the crown and this country—”

“Steve,” Bucky says hoarsely. “Stop talking.”

Steve stops talking.

Bucky’s clutching a piece of paper in his hand. One of the security photos, Steve thinks. His mouth opens wordlessly, shuts again.

“I’m sorry,” Steve offers quietly.

Bucky says, jerkily, “It’s not true.”

People are shouting, now. Armed guards are getting to their feet. Bucky doesn’t pay attention to any of them. He’s still looking at Steve, face white.

“It’s not true,” he says again. “You weren’t here that night. You couldn’t have been.”

“Bucky —”

“Captain Rogers has no alibi,” someone protests.

“Me,” Bucky says. “I’m his alibi.”

“ _Bucky_ ,” Steve says, “ _don’t_ —”

“Steve was not here the night this photo was supposedly taken,” Bucky says, ignoring Steve completely. He looks around the room. “He was in my bed.”

The court dissolves into chaos. Someone grabs Steve’s arms and shoves him toward the exit. Steve twists out of their grasp to look at Bucky.

Bucky’s mouth is bloody. Someone must’ve knocked him down; he’s getting to his feet, slowly, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. Someone is pushing him back with a rifle across his chest.

The guards twist Steve’s arms nearly to the breaking point. “Get going,” someone growls into his ear, “or your precious prince is liable to find himself with a bullet in his chest.”

The last thing Steve hears before the doors shut is Bucky shouting, clear and furious: “I will not be a mindless pawn, sacrificed for your power—”

 

### VI.

Bucky’s been under armed guard for twenty hours; he hasn’t slept for thirty six. He knows he’s in one of the palace wings that’s rarely used, but no more than that. The guards don’t tell him anything — probably not allowed.

They’d fed him once, when he was still reeling from the shock and could barely force the food down his throat. Now, he’s tired and numb and starting to think: he should have known. It was unbearably stupid for him to believe his father would tolerate Steve forever.

When the king finally comes to visit, he’s contemptuous and cold. “You’ve thrown away everything,” he observes, “your honor, your family, your country. All of that for a _boy_.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything. He can’t say anything. He tries to breathe — in. out.

His father looks at him for a moment. “I taught you to be better than that,” he says.

Bucky clears his throat. It takes him two tries before he can speak. “You taught me,” he says. “It wasn’t better.”

* * *

The days blur into weeks. The guards are never ones he knows, and they get rotated out every week. Trying to keep him from building rapport. It’s smart. It’s what he would’ve done.

But guards get bored, and they talk. Bucky sits very still in one corner of the room, where sounds carry, and tries to put all the pieces together. Parts of the country are in open rebellion. The king has escalated from threats to military action.

It takes him two weeks to learn the king doesn’t have Steve. Bucky’s throat goes tight when he hears, and in his relief he nearly misses what comes after.

The rebellion has significant support in the north. Roads are blockaded. They have modified Goliath tanks — not many, but enough to make them dangerous — and they’ve taken over a medical research facility near the border.

This isn’t about him, or Steve, Bucky realizes. This has been in the making for a long time. Steve’s just the match.

He spends hours trying to figure out why the king hasn’t had him killed. Treason’s a capital offense, and he’s sure something he’s done could be construed as such. If news gets out it might turn some people away from the crown, but he’s too interesting a piece just to leave on the chessboard, even powerless as he is.

Maybe it won’t be so bad. They’ll do it by firing squad. It’ll be quick.

Some days he imagines Steve coming for him. Steve, who never knew how to give up a lost cause. He imagines Steve as he is: small and afraid, and twice as dangerous for all that.

Steve had killed his first man for Bucky, and Bucky thinks he’s never known someone like Steve before.

It’s a stupid fantasy. In his better moments, he hates himself for wanting it.

* * *

The time between meals gets longer and longer. He doesn’t know if they’re just trying to kill him slowly or if it’s some kind of psychological tactic. He eats what they give him, tries to trick his body by drinking water out of the bathroom tap.

One day — he’s lost track of the time — two guards come in with weapons at the ready. They cuff Bucky’s hands behind his back and lead him through deserted hallways to a heavily armored truck.

“I’ve been told not to get into cars with strange men,” Bucky says, straight faced.

One of them hits him in the jaw. The other one shoves him in the back. Bucky’s got nothing to break his fall; he twists, lands on one side and bites back a pained shout. He might have wrenched a shoulder. There’s blood in his mouth.

“You want to keep your mouth shut,” one of the guards advises as the truck starts moving. “We’ve gotta deliver you alive, but alive’s a lot of things.”

“Maybe I like it,” Bucky says, just to see how they’d react.

It’s a little disappointing, actually. One of them tightens his grip on his gun and the other one ignores him. Old news, then. He wonders if the whole country knows. Had the trial been broadcasting live? Surely his father wouldn’t have let the papers print it — unless he’d thought that might be more advantageous —

Well. He’s used to having his life splashed across the front page. It’s just that the stories usually aren’t so true.

The truck’s going over rough ground. Bucky’s got nothing to brace against and he bangs his head a couple of times before he figures out how to wedge his good shoulder in between the floor and the bench bolted to the side. One of the guards kicks him idly in the ribs. Bucky tries to keep from throwing up, and then reconsiders. He’s trying to decide whose shoes he wants to throw up on when the truck jerks roughly, and gains speed. There’s the sound of gunfire.

“What the fuck,” guard #1 says.

“Nobody knows we’re moving him,” says guard #2.

The truck can’t seem to stay in a straight line. One of the guards pulls Bucky into a sitting position by the back of his shirt, while the other one looks at the door nervously.

“So what’s it like working for the losing side,” Bucky says. The gunfire is getting very loud.

The truck brakes suddenly —

The truck —

The screech of metal —

* * *

Bucky’s left side feels like it’s on fire. He forces his eyes open and rasps, “Steve?”

“I’m afraid not.” Someone comes into his field of vision. It’s — one of his father’s advisers. Pierce. Something Pierce.

Pierce smiles at him. “Well,” he says. “This is an — interesting opportunity.”

 

### VII.

In the week after the trial, they move Steve three times, always in heavily armored trucks. The trips take hours, but for all Steve knows they’re just driving around in circles. He has no idea what part of the country he’s in anymore. He has no idea what’s been happening — if anything _has_ been happening.

He has no idea what happened to Bucky.

They feed him twice a day. Every time a guard comes to his cell, he asks, “Is the prince all right?”

They never answer him.

He takes to pacing his cell just to have something to do. He’s not let out for exercise. Grimly, he sets himself tasks, goes through the calisthenics routines he remembers. He refuses to be useless for whatever’s coming when he gets out of this.

(If he—)

Ten days, and the guards come in to cuff his wrists behind his back. They take him briskly through the hallways, but when they lead him through the door it’s not to another truck like he’d been expecting.

It’s a courtyard with an X marked on the ground. The guard closest to him says, almost kindly, “Would you like a blindfold?”

Steve looks at the X, looks at the guards taking position along one wall with their weapons, and his voice is steady when he says, “No.”

Steve lets them place him in front of the marksmen, stands there with his heart beating in his throat, but he won’t do it with his eyes closed. He looks down at the people who are going to kill him, efficient and impersonal, and waits.

The day is overcast, gray and cool. There’s a rumble in the air. Storm’s coming, Steve thinks distantly, as he watches the rifles swing up.

The captain counts off to three, loud and clear. Steve sees the muzzle flash, hears the rifles crack—

The marksmen crumple—

— _what?_ —

And it’s not thunder, it’s a goddamn tank coming through the wall of the compound and someone’s climbing out, sprinting towards him—

And Steve looks down at the red stain spreading over his torso.

* * *

He only has bits and pieces of what comes after. Movement. Pressure. The woman grasps his hand fiercely and tells him, “Don’t you dare,” and Steve fumbles in his memories for a name.

“Peggy?”

Later, a man with a gentle touch, who shakes his head and says, rueful, “It may not work.”

“We have to _try._ ”

A pause, then the man says, “You realize this means your chance may never—”

“I don’t care,” Peggy says, “they’ll follow him, we need—”

Later still: “Steven,” the man says, “can you hear me?” and Steve tries to open his eyes, breathe through the pain.

“I’m afraid this will hurt,” the man says, apologetic, “but I need you to stay very still.”

“Okay,” Steve pants, “okay,” and then the world goes white-hot and Steve is screaming, his muscles lock up and he can’t move, he’s not suppose to move, he has to—

* * *

When he wakes up, he’s in a bed with clean white sheets and Peggy’s sitting next to him. He licks his dry lips and croaks out, “The tanks.”

“Please don’t take it personally,” Peggy says. “I truly did enjoy talking with you.”

Steve laughs, a little. “Maybe it’s for the best,” he says, and starts to get up. Stops. Looks down at himself.

Peggy says, “I’m sorry.”

“What—” Steve says, “what happened?”

“Dr. Erskine has been with us for a long time,” she says. “He — we were working on a way to accelerate the body’s rate of healing. There were side-effects.”

“Oh,” says Steve.

“You were dying,” Peggy says softly. “I understand if you’re angry.”

Steve curls and uncurls his fingers, watches the unfamiliar way they move over the sheets. “I’m not—” he starts, and breathes, and says, finally, “can you — could you just give me a moment.”

“Of course,” Peggy says. She closes the door behind her. He looks out the window and tries to remember that he’s alive.

* * *

Eventually, he gets used to the body. It takes him longer to understand what’s been happening.

“Why now?” Steve asks. “The king — the trial, this —”

“You went on the raid with Prince James,” Peggy says. “You know someone’s been supplying weapons to the other side.”

“I — yes,” Steve says, “we reported it, I thought the king —”

“You were useful when you were a hero.” Peggy says. “But the war is, politically speaking, quite beneficial for the monarchy. The risk that you might discover something unsavory was becoming too great.”

“But people have died,” Steve says, uncomprehending. “ _Bucky_ could’ve died, if I hadn’t —”

“That squadron was meant to be captured,” a man breaks in impatiently. Steve had been introduced earlier. Phillips, he thinks. Something Phillips. “Stroke of bad luck it was the prince’s, but you can bet your ass the king and the council knew all about it. Probably fed them the location.”

Steve remembers his mother’s grief for his father; the men he’d known who had died in action. The sight of Bucky, face pale under layers of bandages, blood trickling down his temple.

He says, tightly, “How can I help.”

* * *

He’s stronger now, heals faster, and willing to fight. He’s never been good at waiting for something to happen.

They don’t send him out there.

“You do know who you are,” Phillips says, amused, when Steve protests. “You’re a symbol. You inspire people to join us, and make the other side hesitate at outright retaliation. Can’t kill the golden goose.”

They give him speeches instead, to read on camera and broadcast over illegal channels. He does it, because he can’t do anything else. He paces the compound and asks Peggy for news about Bucky whenever she comes back from a mission.

“He’s in the king’s custody,” she tells him every time. “We don’t know any more than that.”

Months of inaction and frustration, while Steve chafes at being useless, and then comes news from the palace.

“The king’s been deposed,” the messenger says, breathless. “Dead, or exiled, can’t tell, but gone. The council’s put Pierce in charge.”

“Son of a bitch,” Phillips says. 

“Isn’t this good news?” Steve asks. “That’s what we’ve been trying.”

“Pierce is just as ruthless as Barnes and twice as manipulative,” Phillips says, disgusted. “If he hasn’t had both hands in funding this war, I’ll eat my hat.”

“The palace has a broadcast scheduled for tomorrow morning,” Peggy says. “Let’s see how he wants to play.”

* * *

The broadcast starts at nine. They gather in the briefing room to watch it. There’s a banner looping across the bottom, but otherwise the screen is dark and empty. Someone sets the TV to record.

Half a minute later, the camera zooms in on a person, and Steve’s not prepared to see Bucky’s face.

Bucky doesn’t look well. His eyes are dark and focused somewhere beyond the camera. But his voice is steady and his words clear when he speaks.

Steve barely hears the words of the speech, but he pieces it together. Bucky acknowledges his father’s crimes. He praises Pierce’s action in the coup. He calls for a halt to rebel activities.

He says, “Steve, you gotta stop this.”

“Well,” Peggy says when it’s finished. “That’ll make a mess of things.”

“Kid’s popular,” Phillips scowls. “If the palace wants to turn public opinion he’s doing a damn fine job.”

“A shame,” she says absently, “we could have used him. But if he’s thrown his lot in with Pierce —”

“No,” Steve says.

Peggy looks at him with sympathy. “Steve,” She says, “I know this must be hard for you —”

“No,” Steve says again, louder. “That’s not — that wasn’t Bucky. I know him.”

“Son, that kid’s been a politician since he was six years old,” Phillips says. “Whatever he told you was a lie, believe me.”

Someone’s set the speech on loop, muted. Steve focuses on the familiar sight of Bucky rather than face Peggy’s pitying expression.

He says —

He says, “What’s that?”

Right before the camera turns, Bucky shifts. It brings his shoulders into view for the first time.

“Steve?” Peggy says.

Bucky’s missing an arm.

 

### VIII.

There’s a plan. There’s a plan to take the capital and they need him, they’re depending on him to do his part and that means he can’t, he _can’t_ —

(Bucky —)

There’s a plan, and they need him, and he has to _focus_.

“This is as much about symbolism as reality,” Peggy tells him. “You can’t go after the prince, not now.”

“Because I’m his friend,” Steve says, flat.

“Because you’re his friend,” Peggy agrees. “No, I’m afraid you can’t fight him. Instead, we’re going to get you captured.”

* * *

“What do you think?” Stark asks when Steve comes around to find him, holding up a translucent disk the size of a fingernail.

“Should it be doing something?” Steve asks, nonplussed, and shuts the lab door.

“No appreciation whatsoever,” Stark mutters. “This, pal, is the most advanced communication device on the planet. Picks up vibrations through the jaw, stimulates the vestibulocochlear nerve. Stick it behind the ear, it’s virtually undetectable. Sit down.”

Steve sits on the lab stool, bows his head a little. There’s the cool touch of an alcohol pad behind his ear, then the disk. It’s not as stiff as Steve had expected; he works his jaw a little, relaxes when it stays in place.

“Of course, you can’t really talk to us while you’re pretending to get beat up,” Stark says, “but Carter’s gonna keep you updated. You’re sure you’re a big enough distraction to keep ‘em busy ‘til the cavalry comes riding up?”

Steve gets to his feet, lets himself settle into the shape of his body. He’s still not used to it, some days, and they’ve run test after test but they haven’t found his limits yet.

He smiles, thin. “Yeah,” he says. “I think I can handle it.”

* * *

Steve lets himself get spotted half an hour out from the palace. It takes another two and close to fifty men before he surrenders.

They’d ended up in the middle of the city. His hands are cuffed behind his back and there’s a rifle jammed in the small of his back. From the corner of his eyes he can see a crowd gathering, people reaching for their phones. He keeps his head down.

The lieutenant’s having a whispered argument over the radio; Steve can hear the words “civilians” and “cameras”. Finally, the man comes over, looks Steve over distastefully.

“If it were up to me I’d have you put down like a dog,” he says. “Regrettably, the council has decided they’d like to see you first.”

Steve smiles with all his teeth. “Lucky me.”

* * *

He’s escorted up to the palace with a squad of armed guards — not so different from the first time he’d been invited, he thinks wryly. There’s no one in the council chamber when they arrive, but as they’re forcing him to his knees he hears the door across the room swing open.

It comes as a shock to realize that Steve recognizes the man walking in.

“Ah,” the man says, as calm as he’d been when they’d met in a windowless room and he’d slid a folder of photographs across the table. “You know, I don’t think we’ve been formally introduced. Secretary Pierce, at your service.”

Steve closes his eyes. Thinks about all the other rooms Pierce might’ve walked into, all the secrets he’s held in his hands.

There’s a soft sigh from Pierce, and then a burst of pain across Steve’s face. Steve’s eyes fly open, more from surprise than the sensation.

“Look at me when i’m speaking to you,” Pierce says calmly. “So you’re Erskine’s latest invention. Did you really think you’d be enough to change the world?”

In his ear, Peggy says, “Steve, when you’re ready.”

Steve grins at Pierce. “It’s not me you have to worry about,” he says. “It’s them.”

The tanks crash past the palace gates. Steve neatly ducks under the barrel of one guard’s rifle and swipes his feet out from underneath him.

By the time Steve gets to his feet, there are four guards on the floor. The rest are gone, along with Pierce. Steve raids the body for weapons and sets off down the hallway.

“Peggy,” he says, “where do you need me?”

“We’re covered on the ground,” she says, with satisfaction. “And Pierce is going to find he has fewer loyal guards than he thinks—”

Then there’s a crash, and the transmission cuts out. Steve picks up his pace. “Peggy,” he says urgently, “Peggy, can you hear me?”

The reply, when it comes, is a bit breathless. “Here’s something for you,” she says. “Sniper, on the roof. Northwest corner.”

“On it,” Steve says crisply, and spins around to head up the staircase.

The door to the roof is ajar; it swings open silently when he presses a hand against its surface. He eases himself up, scanning for signs of movement.

He finds the sniper when he turns a corner, a dark shape outlined against the concrete; he’s got his eye pressed to the scope, and Steve throws himself at him.

The shot goes wild, the report long and ringing in Steve’s ear. Steve’s hand grasps the barrel, wrenches the rifle out of the sniper’s hands; and the sniper, with a curse, turns on him.

It’s Bucky.

It’s Bucky, and Steve nearly doesn’t dodge the blow that comes his way in time.

It’s Bucky, and the fist that leaves cracks in the concrete isn’t flesh; and Bucky’s looking at him blankly, no recognition on his face.

“Buck,” Steve says, scrambling to his feet, “it’s me. It’s Steve.”

Bucky says, “Steve’s dead.”

It’s cold on the roof; Steve remembers that, afterwards, the whistle of the wind, the weight of Bucky’s body driving into him. Bucky’s voice, snarling: “He’s dead. You killed him.”

Steve’s faster than Bucky, by a hair; but Bucky’s heavier, and the arm makes him dangerous. He’s drawn a knife, comfortable in his grip, and Steve pays for watching too much of Bucky’s left when Bucky switches hands and drives the knife into his side.

He gasps; there’s blood smeared on his fingers, across his torso. He’s curled over, on his knees, and it’s an effort to catch his breath.

Slowly, he becomes aware of Peggy’s voice in his ear.

“Steve,” she’s saying. “Steve, Pierce is dead, the royal guard are retreating. Where are you?”

“He’s dead?” he says muzzily. “He’s—”

Peggy says, “Steve, are you all right?”

Steve breathes. “Peggy,” he says. “Thank you.”

It’s easy to peel the transmitter from his skin, even easier to let it drop from his fingers. Slowly, he gets to his feet.

Bucky’s frowning, shaking his head slowly. “You’re not—” he says, “you’re not real, _this isn’t_ —”

“Sure it is,” Steve says. “We’re real, Buck. This is real.”

Bucky’s hands are at Steve’s throat, and Bucky says—

Bucky says—

“—Steve?”

 

### IX

Steve wakes up in the hospital.

“You should know that I’m very cross with you,” says Peggy.

“Sorry,” Steve rasps. “Where’s—”

“Prince James is in military custody.”

“What?” Steve says, alarmed. His head gives a throb in protest.

“He turned himself in,” she says. “He thought he’d killed you.”

Steve looks down at himself. “I’m not dead,” he points out.

“Well,” she say dryly, “not for the lack of trying.”

“Peggy,” he says, suddenly anxious. “It wasn’t his fault.“

Peggy sighs. “We’re — aware there are extenuating circumstances.”

Steve struggles up. “Let me see him.”

“I’m not sure he wants to—”

“Yeah, well,” Steve says, “tough luck.”

* * *

Bucky, when they bring him in, looks very small. The metal arm is gone, and he’s moving awkwardly, a little lopsided.

“Bucky,” Steve says.

Bucky doesn’t look at him. “I’m not gonna ask you to forgive me,” he says miserably.

“Shut up,” Steve says fiercely, “don’t you dare—” and he’s out of his seat and his hands are on Bucky and he’s kissing him, until Bucky’s body turns softer and he’s kissing back.

“You stayed,” Steve says, “you promised you’d come back.”

“I wanted—” Bucky says. “I didn’t want to leave you, this time.”

Steve kisses him again; and it’s a long time before Bucky says, “There’s gonna be a trial.”

“They can’t,” Steve says, “I’ll talk to — Peggy, or Phillips—”

“Hey, no,” Bucky says. “I want it.”

“What?”

“I’m not going to be my father,” he says. “I don’t want to hide behind my name, or yours. Let the people decide what to do with me.”

Steve says, “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay,” he says again, and takes Bucky’s hand. “But I’m gonna be with you every step of the way.”

Bucky smiles. Says, thoughtfully, “Think Becca'd make a good queen?”

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this for Mici, back in July 2015, as a short response to a question about how I'd write a Steve/Bucky Kings AU. Since then it's grown, and the plot's become an unholy mess of Kings, both Cap movies and oddly enough, the Korean movie Taegukgi. This was written piecemeal; apologies for any inconsistencies.
> 
> #FuckNBC


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